


For you I’ll always take the bullet

by AutumnHobbit



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, father-son feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: autumnhobbit: You know, it just occurred to me that Bruce probably has a reaaaaaally hard time whenever one of his kids gets shot.__________So, naturally, I had to write a fic about the first time each of the Robins gets shot on duty. And throw in some extra angst, because why not.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brooklynnbros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklynnbros/gifts).



> sooooo  
> as the summary states, this started off when I realized that Bruce probably is a wreck whenever one of his kids gets shot, since, you know, that's how his parents died. So then it morphed into this monster which became about the first times the Robins got shot. (I know I didn't include Steph, but if you want extra angst we'll say she never got the chance to get shot as Robin. :):):)  
> Idk if I'm happy with how it turned out, I do like parts of it, but yeah, I think I probably could have done better. However, I do want to finish it because it's brooklynnbros' birthday and clearly she doesn't have enough angst in her young life. :):):) Happy birthday, Ely, and thanks so much for being my friend, it means the world to me to have someone to talk to whom I know won't hate me for disagreeing on some things. Enjoy the pain. :)
> 
> Title is from Bullet by Ryan Star, because I think I'm funny but in reality am not.

Safety was a myth.

That was the first thing Bruce learned from his parents' death. You could be minding your own business, just walking down the street, and someone could tear your whole life down with a flick of their finger, and there was nothing you could do. You could ignore that fact, go about your life, and pretend that you were in control, that you would be fine, and in the back of your mind, you could hope that things would work out.

Alternatively, you could choose not to ignore the facts, and try to do something to change them. 

That had always been his intention, since he was eight and nearly insane from grief, since he was twelve and drawing away from friends and school and focusing on business and training, since he was sixteen and traveling the world and learning from masters of all styles of combat, since he was twenty and put on the cowl for the first time. He convinced himself constantly that that was the plan, that it was sound, that it was a logical choice...the _only_ choice. Sometimes he even believed he was at peace with that decision. 

Those times became rarer after he had his boys. 

It was no less logical for children--especially as skilled as he'd made certain his were, and as determined as they chose to be--to take the fight to the streets. They could just as easily have been hurt in their normal lives, whether by sports or accidents, or chance...or abuse, as he sometimes shuddered to think. 

And yet...there was something so wrong about putting a child out on Gotham, about watching a child see how dirty it was, how cruel. Bruce could deal with it--he had for so long, he'd almost forgotten a time where he could look upon it as kind. His children were no strangers to loss or pain themselves, made of a sterner stuff than he'd ever suspected them to be when he'd first met them. He would admit to select few that they were stronger even than he was. 

But he was the adult. (Their _father._ ) They were his responsibility, and everything that happened to them on the streets was his fault. 

That was a hard cross to bear. 

He'd been on patrol with Dick, the same as they had been doing for weeks now, and he was trying to keep himself from thinking of how much he was enjoying it. He'd managed before, been more efficient, probably...but as loathe as he was to admit it, he'd been lonely, too. And Dick was so like him, and yet so not. He smiled so easily, he _forgave_ so easily. Everything excited him, everything motivated him to do better, to work harder. It was invigorating, and the nagging voice in the back of his head was warning him not to let himself waver, not to let himself relax. 

A lot of good it did him. He'd only split up from Robin a few minutes before when a flurry of gunshots rang out, shattering the silence in ear-splitting noise. 

Bruce could almost swear his heart stopped, despite that being impossible since he immediately tore off in the direction of the shots, faster than he could ever remember running before.

A small, distant, nearly-inaudible yelp came simultaneously as the shots continued, and Bruce's throat was closing in panic. On the one hand, the boy was capable of making noise, which meant he was alive. On the other...

He swept into the room in a frenzy, took out five of the gang members with precision while scanning the room for Robin. The child was huddled behind cover-- _good boy,_ he thought approvingly--just the top of his curly head visible over a crate. Bruce couldn't see what condition he was in. 

He immediately ran for him, dodging the continuing gunfire and grunting as a few bullets hit his armor and bruised him. But he never slowed until he was skidding to a stop beside Dick, covering his small body with his own.

Dick's head whipped up, and his eyes were wide as he saw Bruce hovering over him. His gloved hand was clamped over his upper arm, blood leaking between his fingers, and Bruce gently but firmly grasped the digits and eased them back from the wound. 

It was bleeding, but not severely, and Bruce gasped out a sigh of relief, quickly yanking a pressure bandage from his belt and applying it to Dick's arm. The boy flinched hard, face tightening, and Bruce's heart thudded. He scooped the child up, cradled him protectively against his chest, and ran for safety. The gang fired madly, but the two of them emerged without any further injury. 

Bruce activated his comm as he ran. "A, we're coming in with a GSW to Robin's upper arm. No arteries compromised." 

"Acknowledged, sir," Alfred's voice was calm, but sympathetic. "Is the lad alright?" 

Bruce glanced down at the child, suddenly concerned at how he hadn't spoken. His heart clenched when he saw the tears running down the boy's face from beneath his domino mask, as the hitching sobs belatedly reached his ears. 

"He will be," he said, more to himself than to Alfred. 

The Batmobile was close. The street was empty, and quiet except for Dick's shuddering breaths. 

So Bruce hefted the child up carefully, holding his head against his chest while his long, skinny legs dangled over Bruce's other arm. He gently rubbed Dick's back. "Shhh." He soothed. "You're alright. You'll be fine. I've got you, chum." 

He didn't expect Dick to stop crying, so he wasn't bothered by the continuing sobs as he opened the door and slowly eased the boy down into his seat, buckling him in and stroking his curls back from his eyes. "You did the exact right thing, kiddo. A'll fix you right up. I know it hurts." His chest clenched at the child trying to stifle his small, pained sobs. "It's okay."

The boy cried the entire drive home, and all the way through the cleaning and stitching. He finally quieted after Alfred had given him painkillers and patted his head and declared the entire process over for the night. Bruce carried him upstairs to his bed, and laid him down and tucked him in, made sure his stuffed elephant was nearby if he wanted it. He wasn't sure whether he should leave or talk to him about the night's events, but was spared from his deliberation by Dick's cold little hand clasping at his knuckles tightly. 

"Don't leave," the boy croaked hoarsely, barely awake, and Bruce caved. He moved the boy as best he could without hurting him, and slid into the bed next to him. Dick cuddled up, soaking in the comfort, pressing his tiny head to Bruce's side and squirming until his bony shoulders were hunched nearly over aforementioned head. 

"Shhhhhh." Bruce buried a hand in the curls, stroked them comfortingly. "Go to sleep, chum. I'm not going anywhere." 

He kept stroking until Dick's soft, shaky breaths evened out, and past that.

He himself did not sleep for a long time that night. 

 

_________

 

 

Jason wasn't as cheerful as Dick was...or at least, not in the same way. He was quick-witted, merciless in his honesty, fierce against criminals and family alike. 

But he was also funny, and loyal. And tough. And, in his own way, loving and vulnerable. Sometimes Bruce overlooked his vulnerability, because he hid it so well. 

When Jason was shot, Bruce didn't even notice it, at first. The boy said nothing, didn't make a sound. He missed a beat in his maneuvers, staggered a step upon landing on his feet, and Bruce chalked it up to a misstep, kept fighting, himself. Of course there were bullets flying everywhere. It was rare that there weren't in Gotham, especially at night. He thought nothing of it.

When the fight had finally died down, and the dealers had run off, Bruce turned to Jason, arching a brow beneath the cowl at the boy's limp. "You alright?" He asked gruffly.

"Fine," Jason's voice was strained, but mostly normal. "Landed wrong is all."

Bruce almost would have believed him, if he hadn't caught sight of the blood leaking down onto the pavement in the gleam of the streetlights. 

Jason turned to go. "Stop," Bruce ordered, and Jason froze, shoulders tense. 

"Turn around. Let me see your leg." Bruce's voice was firm. Jason turned--hopping lightly, as Bruce saw--his face hard and angry. Bruce knelt, gently touched his leg and probed the hole carefully with his fingertips. Jason hissed a startled breath through his teeth, and Bruce glanced up. "You lied to me." He said flatly.

Jason glared, looked away. 

Stifling a sigh, Bruce stood. "Come on. We're going back to the Cave." He gathered Jason up, ignoring the boy's heated protest of _'I can walk!'_ He carried Jason back towards the car. 

At the end of the alley the car was parked in, Jason shoved at his chest and swore at him, demanded to be put down. Eventually, Bruce relented in exasperation, lightly setting him on his feet in the lane. He went to climb in...then paused as Jason struggled to limp the short distance, putting as little weight as possible on his leg. He slid into the passengers' seat, oh so slowly swinging his leg in and letting it ease down. He slumped in the chair, drawing quick, harsh breaths through his teeth and closing his eyes, pressing his head back against the seat. 

"Jason." Bruce said quietly.

 _"What?"_ The teen snapped, angry but tight. 

Bruce was quiet for a moment. _How could he tell Jason that he was wrong?_ Finally, he let his voice dip and murmured, "...It's alright to let it hurt. I hate getting shot, myself. It burns like hell and it's consuming and impossible to ignore. I don't expect you to keep going with a bullet in your leg." 

Jason was looking away from him, but the tension in his skinny shoulders was slowly easing. Slowly, Bruce reached out and rested one gauntleted hand on Jason's knee. "I'm not going to punish you for getting hurt, Jason," he said earnestly. "Even I get shot sometimes." He squeezed gently. "Alright?"

A breath. "Alright," Jason whispered, defeated, shoulders slumping. Bruce gave a final squeeze and released the boy, turning back to the wheel to drive them back to the Cave. He listened carefully the whole drive home.

For a long while, Jason did nothing different, continuing to breathe through his teeth, the breaths occasionally quickening with the swells of pain. Ten minutes into the drive, Jason let out a soft, squeaky groan. Seventeen minutes into the drive, his breaths were rapid and hitching. Twenty minutes in, just as they were nearing the Cave entrance, he started to cry. They were strangled little sobs, high and breaking, from a boy who wasn't used to crying. Bruce didn't say a word.

But he reached over with his free hand and grasped Jason's in his own, and Jason squeezed back, tight and unrelenting. 

 

__________

 

 

Bruce was nowhere nearby the first time Tim was shot as Robin. He'd sent Tim to free the employees of a biometric research facility, while he took care of the terrorists who had taken over the building. The comms were being jammed. So Bruce left Tim with specific instructions to wait for his signal and lead the hostages out. Everything went as planned. Bruce took out the team leaders, and ran off to confront the head of their operation while Tim headed for the nearest exit with the hostages. The head merc wasn't an amateur, but Bruce took him by surprise and quickly subdued him and handcuffed him for the GCPD. He ran for the stairs, to rendezvous with Tim and the hostages. 

The first two floors of the building were parking garages. The stair door clanged open into the dim, cold space, the lights down from the power being cut. Bruce stepped out of the door, scanning the floor. There was a crowd of the hostages standing huddled together near the entrance...and a man, whom he recognized as one of the mercenaries, was crumpled on the ground several feet from the group, blood staining his shirt. Bruce faltered a step before breaking into a sprint. He'd thought all the mercs were accounted for--

When the crowd of employees heard him coming, several heads whipped in his direction, and the crowd parted to let him through. Bruce slowed to a near-stop, confused. He'd only meant to check the merc and make sure the hostages were safe...

Then he caught sight of a black boot on the ground, and his stomach clenched in dread. He shoved the rest of the way in, heart suddenly hammering against his ribs, and he could feel people hovering to close the gap behind him.

Tim was sprawled out on his back on the concrete, his ashen face glowing unnaturally in the dark of the garage, sweat glistening on his forehead. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open as he gasped for breath. His hands were clamped tightly over his lower right side. Blood was pooling on his uniform, around and beneath his hands, and there was a puddle of it on the ground beneath him. There was a young-looking security guard kneeling next to Tim, one hand adding additional pressure atop Tim's clenched hands and the other holding a pistol, loaded but with the safety on, and pointed safely towards the ceiling. He glanced up at Batman, who dropped to his knees next to Tim, quickly took his pulse. "Robin," he commanded. Tim didn't respond, just kept gasping. 

"What happened." Bruce didn't quite growl, but it was close. 

The guard looked undeterred. "He was leading us out when the guy got the jump on us at the service entrance. We hadn't taken but two steps outside when the merc shot him. I had my gun, so I returned fire, but by then Robin was already down. That was maybe twelve minutes ago." He glanced down at a hitch in Tim's desperate gulps, which had been one of the only echoing sounds in the garage for the entirety of the conversation. "He's hit bad." He glanced back up at Batman. "You need to go, _now._ We've already called GCPD." 

Bruce didn't argue. He drew a pressure bandage from his belt, quickly prepared it and set his hand next to the guard's. The man understood, and after three seconds moved his and Tim's hands, allowing Batman to apply the bandage to the wound. He also kindly ignored how Batman's hand was shaking just slightly. Bruce prepared another bandage and gently lifted Tim just enough to apply the dressing to the exit wound in his back. As soon as the bandage was secure, Batman carefully slid an arm beneath Tim's upper back and eased him into a sitting position, and from there lifted him into his arms.

"Will he be alright?" An older woman asked, concern on her face. 

Bruce couldn't bring himself to answer, Tim's wheezing breaths beginning to echo in his ears. The cowl felt suddenly too tight, restricting and suffocating. 

He forced himself to glance away from Tim's scarily empty face and to refocus on the employees. "Stay here, stay together, wait for the police," he ordered, less firmly than he would have liked.

The guard made a shooing motion with his free hand, now covered in Tim's blood. "We'll be fine. Go. Get him help."

Bruce nodded, and without any further delay turned and ran as fast as he could go without jostling Tim too much. He contacted Alfred as he went. "A, call Leslie and tell her I'm coming in with Robin. GSW to the lower abdomen, bleeding heavily, and he's unresponsive." Bruce's jaw was beginning to hurt from how tightly it was clenched. 

"Yes sir. I will be at the clinic in fifteen minutes." Alfred responded quickly, disconnected without another word. Bruce felt guilt coiling in his stomach at the fear in Alfred's voice. The butler had bonded with Tim, as he had with all of Bruce's sons-- _partners._  

Bruce himself was struggling not to think of the last time he was carrying a limp, bloodied, lifeless-- _No._ Tim wasn't, not yet, he had time, he _wasn't too late..._

 _Damnit, don't think about Jason now._  Bruce clenched his stinging eyes shut beneath the cowl and kept going, lungs burning from exertion and heart feeling like it was dying within him. 

He finally reached the parked car, and forced himself to set Tim in the passenger seat and get into the drivers seat himself. 

The ride over there was hell. The car was on autopilot, so Bruce could focus on Tim, but there wasn't much he could do. The bandage he'd applied earlier had soaked through with blood, so he added another bandage on top of the previous one. Tim remained practically unconscious, the hoarse, noisy breaths continuing to go in and out, but his skin was so pale and the bandages were soaking through so quickly that Bruce removed his glove and grasped Tim's left wrist, checking his pulse. His own heart stuttered at the thready, erratic beat beneath his fingertips, much faster than it should have been. 

He'd been too late to save Jason. He was here now for Tim, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do. 

Nothing.

He gathered Tim into his arms again as the car slowed to a stop behind Leslie's clinic. As soon as the vehicle was slowed enough that he could get out, he threw the door open and rushed up the stairs. The back door of the clinic slammed open, and Leslie stepped back to allow Bruce inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. 

"It's a through and through, bled a lot. His pulse was really thready when I checked it, and I'd be willing to bet his blood pressure's dropping," Bruce said breathlessly, carefully easing Tim down onto the gurney and accepting the utility knife Alfred handed him. He cut into Tim's uniform while Leslie hovered beside him, checking Tim's pulse herself. "Alfred, get the blood bags. They're in the fridge in the closet," Leslie ordered, still glancing at her watch. Alfred left to follow her instructions while Bruce carefully peeled back Tim's uniform and attached a heart monitor node to his chest. The machine started screeching, and Bruce glanced at the screen, heart in his throat at the sight of the bright red numbers and dipping lines. 

Leslie elbowed him lightly as she pushed past him, gently tipping Tim's head back and fixing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. She glanced at the monitors herself, and swore under her breath. 

"His blood pressure's too low for much anesthesia, but if we don't operate soon, he'll die. Bruce, you know his weight, get a dosage of lidocaine together. It's the least we can do. Hurry."

Bruce nodded, stepping back to let Alfred through with the IV supplies. He turned and went to Leslie's cabinet, digging through the bottles until he found the lidocaine. He snatched a syringe from a dispenser, and carefully loaded it. The tiny numbers swirled as he stared at them, and he shook his head in frustration, freed one hand to yank his cowl back. He refocused and finished loading the syringe, drawing it out and re-sealing the small bottle. Leslie's hand was outstretched and he set the syringe in it. She took it and instructed Alfred to have saline ready as she peeled back the bandages with her gloved hand. Bruce grabbed the overhead light and switched it on, adjusted it to the proper angle to light Leslie's work area. He swallowed bile at the sight of the wound--the powder burns surrounding the shredded skin, the angry red and black and purple color already showing around the hole, the blood glistening inside, the odd off-color of an organ--

Bruce looked away from the wound and to Tim's face. And it wasn't any better. He was pale and still, the oxygen mask fogged over his mouth, his lips tinged blue, his only expression the faintest pinch around his eyes and tension in his jaw that said he was in pain. He looked young. He looked helpless. He looked like everything Bruce always tried to forget that he was. 

He looked dead. Bruce knew what that looked like on a child. _Intimately._

And Bruce felt like he'd forgotten how to breathe. Because this pain in his heart, this fear that felt like a vice around his ribs...wasn't about Jason. It wasn't just about Jason anymore. It wasn't just that he felt guilty for failing Jason. It wasn't just that he felt guilty for failing Tim. It wasn't just that he'd misjudged Tim, been distant and even cruel to this boy who'd helped him so much. It wasn't even that he needed Robin; as much as that was true, because the boy had been right. He did need Robin. 

But he needed Tim, too.

He wanted him. 

He wanted his presence, his quiet support, his loyalty, his tireless hard work, his kindness. He wanted his protests and his stubbornness and his failures and his anger. He wanted to believe that he was deserving of Tim's dedication. 

Tim was not Jason. Tim was Tim. And Bruce loved him, just as much as he had loved Jason. For different reasons, but the love was the same. And _how_ had he not seen it until now, what the hell was _wrong_ with him, that he never acted until it was too late to help the people he cared for--

A new alarm started blaring, and Bruce's head snapped up. Alfred and Leslie were hard at work on Tim's side--Bruce saw Leslie stitching a faintly pulsing artery that was ripped on one side--but Alfred was glancing up at the monitors as well. "Bradycardia," he told Doctor Thompkins, and she nodded shortly. 

"Nothing we can do unless he crashes all the way," she said tensely. "He's already got a unit going in, and if this artery isn't stitched it won't do him any good." 

Bruce swallowed hard and glanced back at Tim's face. It was just as empty as it had been since he brought him in, but now Bruce felt like he was seeing it for the first time. He reached over and found Tim's hand without the IV and took it between both his own. He held the hand to his cheek, uncaring of the blood drying on the thin, cold  fingers. He closed his eyes and held Tim's hand and prayed, uncertain of whom he was begging for this boy's life. His boy. 

 _Please. Please._  

"Got it," Leslie said, tight and strained, just as the heart monitor's repetitive screeching descended into a flatline.

Bruce's eyes snapped open, and he laid Tim's hand back down at his side before springing to his feet. Leslie was yanking the vascular clamps off of Tim's artery and pushing the gurney towards the unused table in the room. "Bruce," she called breathlessly, and he ran beside her, pushed the heart monitor and the IV stand beside the table, and lifted Tim off the gurney and laid him out flat on the metal surface. Leslie ran her fingertips down Tim's bare chest, paused over his heart, and she started chest compressions. Alfred appeared at Bruce's side with the BVM and Bruce removed Tim's oxygen mask and carefully lifted the boy's head to slide a folded towel beneath it. Alfred secured the mask over the boy's slack face and began compressing the bag. Bruce's hand lingered on Tim's cheek, in theory to hold the mask steady, but really because he couldn't bring himself to let go. 

There was a beat of relative quiet as they fought for Tim's life, though Bruce didn't think of it as quiet as the roaring in his ears was drowning out everything but the boy on the table. The heart monitor was beeping faintly from the artificial beats Leslie was forcing from Tim's heart, but Bruce was frozen anyway, holding Tim's face and begging for the heartbeats to continue, terrified that when Leslie stopped, so would they. 

"186, 187, 188...three minutes," Leslie panted. "At 200, we leave off and listen." 

Bruce accepted the bag from Alfred, let the older man step closer to Tim and hold the boy's face steady, and Bruce compressed the bag and tried hard to ignore the tears in the old man's eyes. 

Leslie stepped back, trying to catch her breath, and Bruce didn't even try to catch his, watching the heart monitor with his own heart thudding in his ears. 

The faint beeping didn't stop. It kept going, fluttering little beeps ringing from the machine. And then Bruce heard Tim suck in a faint breath, and the oxygen levels went up a bit, and the heart monitor picked up a bit further. 

Leslie heaved out a sigh, her shoulders slumping in relief. Alfred did likewise, shoulders hunching over the table. Bruce stared fixedly at the monitors, clutching at the corner of the table. 

After a moment, Leslie straightened a bit. "We...we should replace that unit," she said a bit hoarsely, rubbing at her eyes with her forearm. "Alfred?"

"Yes ma'am," Alfred said, voice almost normal. He cupped Tim's face and bent to press a lingering kiss to the boy's pale forehead before gently releasing him and backing away from the table. He patted Bruce's shoulder as he passed. But Bruce couldn't move, still staring fixedly at the monitors, and at the boy attached to them. Tim was quiet, now, but breathing, his black lashes contrasting sharply with his pale cheeks. 

He shouldn't have been here. 

He shouldn't be lying here with a hole in his side. 

He shouldn't be lying here hurt because of Bruce's neglect.

He had become Batman when his parents were shot and killed in front of him, had sworn to himself that he would do whatever he could to prevent it from happening to anyone else. And he'd lost Jason already, and less than a year later, here was another child---another of _his_ children---his life nearly ended by a bullet. On Bruce's account. 

He wasn't wearing the cowl, but he still felt like he was suffocating. There wasn't enough air in the room. There wasn't enough air in the world. 

Heart in his throat, with a last, desperate gaze at Tim's lax face and a spasming squeeze of his cold hand, Bruce yanked the cowl back up and practically ran from the room. 

 

______

 

 

The roof of Gotham General Hospital was slick and cold with freezing rain in a fierce storm. Bruce wished the chaos around him would give him a sense of peace and rightness, but he still felt like his heart was at war with something he couldn't name, and he kept putting one foot in front of the other and pushing on because if he stopped now he didn't know if he'd be able to start again. 

Finding Gordon was fairly easy. The man was with two of his lieutenants, in a fairly calm, near-abandoned sectioned-off side of one floor that was reserved for criminals. He was talking quietly with the other two officers, but the conversation died down when the other two caught sight of him. Gordon froze, then turned. "Batman," he said, and he sounded a mix of relieved and worried. "You alright? The boy at the tech place told me about Robin. Is he okay?"

Pain stabbed at Bruce's chest. He didn't nod or shake his head. He jabbed his chin towards the door. "What have you got on him?"

Gordon sighed. "He's fairly new to the business, low level. Has next to no intel on his boss." A faded red eyebrow arched suspiciously. It reminded Bruce of Barbara. "Why?"

"Is he conscious?" Bruce grunted.

Jim sighed again, and turned to his officers. The two nodded and quietly left. 

"I'll give you five minutes. No more than that." Jim's sharp gaze seemed to pierce the cowl, and Bruce felt irrational irritation at the man for being so perceptive. "Don't rough him up too much. He'll live, but that doesn't mean he's in good shape." 

Batman said nothing, turned away.

The hospital room was quiet except for the familiar, hated sounds of hissing and beeping. The merc was limp against the bed, handcuffed to the rail, and seemed half-conscious, attached to a nasal cannula and several bags of fluid. Batman stood across from the bed, stock still. After a few moments, the man stirred and shifted slightly in the bed, eyes opening a bit more. When he caught sight of Batman looming over his bed, silent, he stiffened. 

"You know who I am." Batman growled.

A mute nod.

"Who are you working for." Silence. "Answer me."

The man swallowed. "I don't know."

"You're lying." Batman took a step forward. And another. The man started breathing hard, squirming back in the bed as Batman came closer. 

"I don't know, alright!? We were never told, we just get an email and show up, okay!?"

"You expect me to believe you're an innocent pawn," Batman seethed. "You lost that right when you shot a child." _Mine,_ his heart screamed.

The merc was panting, sweat dripping down his face. Batman was looming inches from his face now, fists clenched. "Wha..." he stammered, confused. "...why was he out there if you didn't want him hurt--"

Batman's fist was digging deep against the bandaged bullet wound before he could stop himself. The merc gave a strangled scream, and Batman staggered a step back and removed his fist belatedly just as the door crashed open. 

"What the _hell!"_ Gordon's voice was angry, and Bruce felt a pang of guilt even as he let himself be manhandled out the door and back into the hallway. The man in the bed was gasping, blood soaking the bandage and his mouth from where he'd bitten through his lip, and his eyes were huge and terrified. Then the door slammed shut as Gordon kicked it and Bruce found himself shoved up against the wall.

"Is Robin alive?" Gordon demanded heatedly.

"Wha--" Bruce couldn't follow, couldn't tell what Gordon was getting at...and he'd been expecting to be chewed out, not to be interrogated about Robin again. 

"Damnit, Batman, is the boy alive or not?" Gordon was practically shaking him now. Bruce choked out a broken _"Yes,"_ just to make him stop. 

Gordon loosened his hold a bit, took a step back out of Batman's face. "Then why the hell are you here? Why aren't you with him?"

Bruce felt like he couldn't catch his breath. "I...the perpetrators..."

"No, don't you pull that bullshit with me, Batman. We had this handled and you know it. Why are you running?" Gordon demanded.

"It's my fault," Bruce ground out, his voice faltering at the end of the sentence. He hung his head, shoulders bowing, too ashamed to meet Gordon's eyes. 

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Gordon sighed, and it sounded like all the fight had gone out of him. "Look. Batman. I...I know the tendency to want to hide from it. Believe me," the commissioner's voice was tight and sad, and Bruce closed his eyes against the burn of tears just _thinking_ of Barbara, so soon after Jason and another cruel act that could have been prevented if he had just tried harder--

"But hiding from it doesn't help anyone. And...oh, hell with it, I know he's not your kid...biologically, at least. But you care about him, and he cares about you. So just...just go to him. You got lucky today. Don't waste it." Gordon's tone turned wry, but still sad. "Rule one of being a good daddy; it's not about you anymore. Your kid needs you, so you've gotta step up to the plate, guilt be damned." 

Bruce blinked, suddenly feeling incredibly weary. The suit felt like it weighed a million pounds, and he felt how sweaty and tired he was beneath it. Every ache and pain he'd been ignoring through the spike of adrenaline that kept him going through the surgery came back all at once, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse in the hallway and sleep for hours.

But no. He didn't want to collapse here, in the empty villain ward of the hospital. He wanted to collapse at the Manor, with Alfred and Tim safe and home. 

He probably wouldn't be able to get that tonight, but at least he still had Alfred and Tim. Which he was grateful for, now that he thought about it. So, so grateful.

"You're right." Bruce said, low and rough. "I'm sorry." 

Gordon sighed. "It's alright. Just...don't do that again." He gave a weak grin. "I'm getting old, and while I could take you if I had to...that doesn't mean I want to try."

Bruce choked a laugh. Gordon patted his shoulder. "Tell Robin I said get well soon."

"I will." Bruce turned and headed for the stairs.

_I'm sorry, Tim. I'm coming._

__________

 

The clinic was still lit-up when Bruce pulled up to the back. Alfred was standing outside, wrapped up in his jacket against the cold wind whipping through the alley, and Bruce swallowed hard, feeling like he was about ten years old. He put the car in park, turned it off, and climbed out slowly. Alfred didn't say a word, simply watching him approach. 

Bruce climbed the steps and stood in front of Alfred, head hanging. "I'm _sorry,"_ he whispered hoarsely, eyes fixed on Alfred's soaking wet leather shoes. 

Alfred sighed. "Oh, Master Bruce," he said. Bruce felt a firm but gentle hand grasp his shoulder. "It's not me you need to apologize to."

Bruce glanced up once, and dropped his eyes immediately at the empathy in Alfred's eyes. "How is he?" he asked, barely audibly.

"Incredibly groggy and in a lot of pain." Alfred replied. "But he's alive. And he's been asking for you." 

Bruce felt a pang of guilt in his chest at the thought of the usually reserved and serious boy half-conscious and wondering where he was. _Oh Tim, I'm so sorry._  

"...I believe he is afraid that you are going to fire him over this instance," Alfred's tone turned hard, and Bruce's eyes snapped up in shock to meet the man's stern gaze. _"What?"_ Bruce asked, aghast. 

"With all due respect, Master Bruce, he's heard from Master Dick of how you behave when one of them is injured in the field." Alfred's tone was a bit stiffer than it had been up until this point. "It's not unreasonable for him to fear that very eventuality will come into play here."

Bruce stammered. "I... _No!_ No, Alfred." He sighed. "It didn't even cross my mind to fire him. I know how well that goes over. I just..." he sighed. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way--that he has to be put in danger because of me." Even Bruce could hear the break in his voice, and he closed his eyes tight against the burn of tears yet again. 

"Oh, Master Bruce," Alfred said again, less stern this time, and he stepped closer and placed his hand on Bruce's shoulder again. "Master Tim volunteered for this, remember? It's perfectly reasonable for you to feel guilty, but don't deal with it by running away from it. Master Tim does not deserve that." Alfred gently grasped Bruce's chin, raised it so that Bruce was forced to meet his serious eyes. "And neither do you." 

Bruce nodded minutely, and Alfred released him. "Dick didn't deserve it, either," Bruce admitted guiltily, his voice low. "I...I should have told him that I panicked and blamed myself, not him." 

"Well, it's good to hear that you think so, sir," Alfred remarked, opening the door to the clinic, "because it just so happens that Master Richard is here tonight." 

"What?" Bruce asked, surprised.

"I called him," Alfred answered the unspoken question, leading Bruce to one of the back rooms in the clinic. "He's in with Master Tim as we speak." Alfred paused just inside the doorway of the room, and Bruce stepped past him towards the curtained off alcove, feeling off but strangely relieved. 

He pulled his cowl back as he turned the corner to the sight of Tim lying limply in a gurney, a cannula in his nose and an IV in his arm, head turned to the side on his pillow. He was so still that Bruce would have thought him still unconscious if his eyes were not half-open and blinking sluggishly. Dick was sitting in a chair pulled up next to the gurney, his elbows on the bed, chin resting on his hands next to Tim's head so the boy could see him. Both of them glanced at Bruce when he stepped into their line of vision, startled. 

"Bruce." Dick sat up straight, the easy smile disappearing from his face, as Bruce saw with a pang. It was replaced with a sort of cool neutrality, though he didn't look angry, which was a relief.  Tim slightly tensed on the bed, though he didn't seem to have the energy to do much beyond that, his fingers curling faintly where they rested on his thigh.  

"Where were you?" Dick was asking coolly, and Bruce couldn't tear his eyes away from Tim's hazy grey eyes and the slight glint of fear in them. "Around," he responded distractedly, taking a careful step closer. The glint didn't disappear, but Tim didn't flinch away. 

"I just thought I'd drop in and check on him, hang out if he felt up to it," Dick said, vaguely defensive. "Alfred called me about two hours ago, so I got here as soon as I could." He leaned over and patted Tim's cheek, leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead. Tim scrunched up his nose and blinked owlishly, trying and failing to suppress a weak smile. "I'll let you talk, I need to get going anyway..."

"Dick," Bruce said, feeling desperate as he reached for the young man's arm. Dick froze, and Bruce cursed himself but leaned in. "Don't." He swallowed. "You...you don't have to leave on my account. I...I'm glad you're here. To see Tim." 

Dick looked startled, and Bruce kept going, a bit heartened. "I...I don't know if you have time, but...I'd appreciate it if you stayed, and I think Tim would, too." He glanced back at Tim, who was watching the exchange with a hint of trepidation. "Right, kid?"

Tim nodded minutely, and Bruce glanced back at Dick. His oldest looked confused at the sudden attention from Bruce, but his face softened when he saw Tim's eagerness. "...Alright," he allowed after a moment. "I'll stay. But I'll still give you the chance to talk this out. Politely." He eyed Bruce sternly, and Bruce tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. He nodded. "Of course." _I'm sorry,_ he tried to say with his eyes. _I'm sorry I've made you so suspicious of me. I'm sorry you have to protect yourself and your brother. I'm so proud of you._  "I...I'm glad to see you, Dick." He finally forced out, through a traitorously tight throat. 

Dick's eyes widened. "I. Um. I'm...glad to see you, too." He finally said, still a bit on guard, but faintly more relaxed than he had been. Bruce managed a smile, squeezed Dick's shoulder once before releasing him. Dick stood awkwardly for a moment before rounding the curtain to where Alfred was waiting quietly. Bruce waited until the young man was safely with his grandfather and then turned and crossed the room in two strides, leaning over the gurney. "Tim." He breathed, as if the boy would disintegrate and fade away if he spoke too loudly.

Tim blinked up at him, a bit startled, but a hint of relief on his face. "Bruce," he murmured, trying to smile. Bruce reached down and slowly, carefully, oh-so-gently laid his hand on top of Tim's head, watching him all the while. When the teen didn't cringe or flinch away, Bruce began slowly stroking his hair, pushing his black bangs back from his face. "Tim, I..."

"I'm sorry," Tim stammered, and Bruce started, watched him in shock as he spoke quickly but quietly, his voice straining at times. "I was sloppy, I...I shouldn't have let that guy get the jump on me, I should have called you immediately, I should have--"

 _"Tim!_ Tim, you..." Bruce tried to breathe, tried to think before he spoke. "I didn't expect you to call me. You were physically incapable. You were unconscious when I got there, and had been since you'd been shot. There's no possible way you could have. I didn't expect that from you." He swallowed hard. "It's my fault. I should have kept count. He never would have made it downstairs if I had paid more attention."

"It's not your fault, either." Tim rasped insistently, his eyes earnest. 

Bruce sighed. "It's neither of our faults', kid. I. I guess it happens." He tucked a strand of Tim's hair behind his ear. "I hate it, though," he admitted, almost silently. 

Tim choked a laugh, his voice tight with pain. "I don't like it much, either." He closed his eyes tightly, sweat breaking out on his forehead, and Bruce's heart hurt as he waited. After a long, tense moment, the boy exhaled in relief, the tension in his body loosening again. 

"Alfred...told me you were afraid I was going to fire you." Bruce said quietly, after a while of Tim's breath evening out after the spasm. 

Tim's eyes opened again, and rolled to glance at Bruce, apprehension in his gaze. "And?" He asked, a bit nervous. 

Bruce sighed. "I shouldn't have fired Dick in the first place. I don't blame him for trying to protect you. I..." Bruce's voice dipped. "I don't handle this well, Tim."

Tim barked a laugh. Bruce blinked, startled. "What?" He asked.

"Nothing, just..." Tim panted, but he was still grinning. "Duh."

Bruce felt a smile pulling at the edges of his lips without his consent, and he managed a chuckle as Tim quieted down again. "I shouldn't take it out on you. It just." Bruce sighed. "It scares me," he admitted under his breath.

Tim looked shocked...and concerned. "Because...because of Jason?" He whispered hesitantly. 

Bruce closed his eyes. "Partially, I guess? I..." he swallowed hard. He forced himself to blink his eyes back open, meet Tim's hazy, vulnerable gaze. "I haven't been fair to you. You're my partner, not a soldier. And..." his voice was breaking, but he kept going. "...and you're not Jason, either. And...and I think I've realized that...that's alright." He looked right into Tim's eyes, heart hurting at how shocked the boy looked, surprised at the sudden honesty, like he himself hadn't thought he was that important. "I need you, Tim. I want you to stay as my partner--that is, if you want to..."

Tim's mouth was open in shock, but he quickly closed it and stammered, "B-Bruce? Are you kidding?" He laughed breathlessly. "We have work to do. Of course, I'm with you. Of course."

And just like that, Bruce was smiling again, and his heart warmed enough that he no longer felt crushed. Tim beamed, as much as he was capable. Bruce shifted his hand to cup the boy's cheek. "I don't deserve you, Tim," he admitted quietly. 

Tim grinned faintly. "I'm sorry, Bruce, but I'm exactly what you deserve." 

Bruce chuckled and brushed Tim's bangs back from his eyes with his other hand. "Do you want me to call Dick back in? Or do you want to try and get some more sleep?"

Tim's smile faded a bit, and Bruce could see some of the pain the boy had been hiding written on his face again. "If...if he's staying..." Tim mumbled. "...'m kinda tired." 

"Don't worry," Bruce promised, heart hurting again at Tim's pinched expression. "I won't run him off." 

"Know you won't." Tim croaked quietly, his lashes sliding shut. 

"Do..." Bruce swallowed. "...do you want me to go? Let you rest?"

Tim's hand without the IV reached out almost instantly, despite the limb shaking slightly, and he grasped Bruce's hand surprisingly tightly. "No." He whispered breathily. "...please?"

Bruce swallowed, and for the umpteenth time that evening tried hard not to think of the last time he sat vigil over a bullet-riddled and weak but blessedly alive child. "Okay." He murmured, continued gently carding through Tim's hair until his breathing evened out. When the boy was thoroughly asleep, Bruce laid his head down on the side of the mattress and closed his eyes tightly. He didn't start crying for a few minutes, but once he did, he couldn't stop. 

 

__________

 

Bruce had fought with Damian. That was his first mistake of the night. Telling the boy he was a liability for being unpredictable and for being a pain at home was not the best way to address his problems.

His second mistake was sticking too close to the boy to try and prevent him from running off. With his focus on Robin--Damian--instead of on his surroundings, the ambush came without warning. 

His third mistake was allowing Damian to ram into him with surprising speed and force--for being so small, the boy was solid, and Bruce staggered a step back when Damian's shoulder collided with his gut. 

His fourth mistake was letting Damian immediately take off as soon as Bruce was in the clear. The boy ran for the gunmen, and Bruce, after a moment of shocked indecision, took off after him. By the time he reached his wayward son, the boy had disarmed and subdued two gunmen, and was kicking the gun out of the last one's hand. He then sprang up against the wall, and with his momentum seized the man's head and rammed it against the brick siding as he dropped back onto his feet. The thug crumpled. Damian landed solidly, straightened carefully. 

Bruce slowed to a stop in the alley. "What have I told you about headshots," he sighed, exasperated. The thug was still breathing, but head injuries were risky. 

"Tt." Robin hissed, trying to catch his breath. His posture was off, and Batman eyed him suspiciously. 

"What's wrong." It was a statement, not a question.

"Nothing. Let's go." Robin turned away. Batman took three strides forward and grabbed the boy by his shoulder. 

"You're lying to me. Show me your side." Batman's voice was hard, his gaze fixed on how Robin was hiding one hand beneath his cape. The boy's masked eyes glared harshly, his jaw locked, but he slowly moved his hand. Batman saw the blood staining his glove easily. 

"You were hit." Bruce said, dropping to his knees and pushing the cape aside. There was a clear bullet hole in the tunic and the surrounding fabric was already sticky and bloodstained. Bruce felt the familiar fear rising in his stomach at the sight, and he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "We're going home. Now."

"But I..."

Bruce growled, and Damian's jaw snapped shut. The boy's face grew hard, but Bruce ignored it as he lifted his son to carry him back to the car. Damian was stiff and uncooperative in his arms, so he wound up with the boy sitting on one of his arms, the child's own arms crossed over his small chest. He was stony and silent. Bruce returned the favor. He silently placed the boy in the car, silently buckled him in, silently drove back to the cave, and silently picked the child back up and carried him inside. Alfred was waiting, as usual, so Bruce set the boy on the gurney and turned to wash his own hands. 

Alfred tutted quietly behind him. "Do you need something first, Master Damian? You've quite the long face."

"I'm fine." The child's voice was so cold that Bruce cringed. He turned back towards his butler and his son. "Get him a dose of lidocaine." He said to Alfred, and the older man sighed and turned to prepare the needle. 

Bruce removed his cowl and snapped on a pair of gloves, crossing the room. Damian sat propped up in the gurney, arms still crossed over his chest. He gazed in the opposite direction, ignoring Bruce. With a sigh, Bruce started to work unfastening Damian's tunic. The fabric was sticking to Damian's skin with sweat and blood, and though Bruce tried to be gentle it was impossible to get it off without some discomfort to Damian. He finally peeled it all the way back--and stopped dead. 

The bullet wound actually didn't look as serious as he had initially thought--it was in a good area, wasn't bleeding heavily, and was fairly clean. But the rest of Damian's skin was absolutely riddled with scars; long, thin ones from knives or other, more specialized weapons, smaller, puckered ones from bullets, of several different calibers judging by the size, and jagged tears in the skin from goodness knew what. Staring in horrified fascination, Bruce swore that there wasn't a single spot on Damian's torso where there were more than two square inches between scars. 

"What _is_ taking you so long?" Damian asked irritably, and Bruce's gaze snapped from the child's stomach to his face, incredulous. The boy was still glaring at the floor, completely unconcerned. 

Bruce gaped. He glanced back at the scars. There were edges of more scars on Damian's sides, crawling back towards his spine. Bruce grasped the boy beneath his arm and rolled him onto his side, ignoring Damian's sputters of surprise and indignation. His breath caught in his throat at the even more horrific scarring around Damian's spinal cord--which looked off somehow, the edges harder than normal and artificial-looking. When he ran careful fingertips across the ridges, they felt sharp and solid, like metal. There was fucking metal buried beneath his son's skin. His _nine-year-old_ son. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Damian actually sounded angry now, and he yanked his shoulders forward, away from Bruce's probing fingers. He managed to yank the sheet up to cover himself as he rolled onto his mutilated back to glare at his father. 

"Wha--" Bruce's voice was jagged, rough. He swallowed, tried to unclench his jaw, his traitorously tight throat. "What the hell is _that?"_

"It's my spine. What did you think it was?" Damian bit out furiously. 

"That is _not_ what a spine looks like."

"Well it's what mine looks like. It's looked like that since I was four." Damian scowled, and Bruce nearly threw up.

"Since you were _four?"_ He forced out, aghast. 

"Yes. Mother had me operated on to enhance its durability." Damian was eyeing him in irritation and defensiveness. 

"How--" Bruce was so disgusted he could hardly form words, and there were so many thoughts flying through his mind that he latched onto the first one. "How the hell are you supposed to grow with that--that thing in you?"

"It's flexible." Damian said defensively. "It stretches. It's like a collapsible frame." 

"And that makes it _okay?"_ Bruce couldn't stand to look at the scars, but he also couldn't stand to look at his son's face, or at the confusion in his eyes. 

"It's not good or bad. It just is." Damian insisted. "...It's always been like that." His voice started to dip, uncertain. 

 _"Master Bruce."_ Alfred's voice was a bit louder than Bruce was used to hearing it (at least since he was Damian's size) and he couldn't help his gaze snapping to the older man, startled. "Perhaps it would be better to treat the young Master's wound before getting into this matter?" The look in Alfred's eyes left no room for argument.

Bruce shook his head, trying to snap himself out of visions of Damian--tiny, tiny Damian, even smaller than he was now--lying unconscious and helpless on a metal table, of blood and jagged edges, of complete, fearful silence. "Of course," he forced out.

He stepped forward slowly, very aware of Damian's eyes on him as the boy stayed swaddled in the sheet. He stopped by the side of the gurney, hands at his sides.

"Damian. I'm--" Bruce swallowed, forced his voice to be soft and even. "I'm sorry I startled you. I understand if you'd rather I not help, but please let Alfred treat you, at least?" 

There was a beat of quiet. Finally, Damian nodded mutely, slightly released the sheet wrapped around him. Alfred stepped closer and gently pulled the sheet away, moved Damian so he was lying on his back again and started working on his side. Bruce took a step back, ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, trying desperately to ground himself. 

He'd known Damian existed. For years, and he chose to ignore it. He left the boy with his mother and the League, and now he had a scarred child, not yet ten-years-old, with scars that would have charges filed if they were found on _adults._

But that wasn't what was causing the painful churning in Bruce's stomach. He was already hard enough on his son, but to punish him for Talia's offenses was wrong. And anyway, it was more Bruce's fault than Talia's. Talia was beautiful but in some ways crazy. Bruce was supposed to know better. He was supposed to _be_ better than she was to Damian. And yet he'd done nothing but demand of the child since he'd arrived, been exhausted with him and complained of his arrogance. And Damian wasn't stupid. He had to know that he was unwanted.

But he wasn't unwanted. Bruce was a selfish ass. He'd complain about Damian and be exhausted with the boy, but when the child's safety was threatened, that familiar fear gripped his heart, made his breath catch. Somehow, regardless of Damian's origins or frustrating aspects, he'd come to that miraculous point where he looked at the small boy and thought, _'mine.'_ _Mine to protect, mine to care for, mine to love. Mine._

And he'd failed him all the same, as he inevitably failed all his children. Bruce clamped his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes.

But it wasn't remotely fair to take this out on Damian. The thought made him open his eyes, glance back at his son in the gurney. Damian looked fairly unaffected, a bit sweaty and his posture a bit tight, but otherwise was calm and unresistant as Alfred stitched up his skin. He wouldn't accept pity or sympathy. Bruce knew that much from experience. Damian believed they were hallmarks of falseness, that if anyone expressed concern for him they were faking it, or were manipulating him. Except maybe Dick, Bruce realized with remorse. How would Dick deal with a situation like this?

Dick wouldn't have snapped or been forceful with Damian, first off, because Dick trusted Damian and Damian trusted him right back. _Too late for that, now, move on to something helpful._ Dick would be honest. He would tell Damian that he screwed up, explain why he screwed up, put everything on the table, and let Damian decide whether he forgave him or not. He didn't manipulate or guilt. He just said what he thought. 

"Now, you stay here for the rest of the night, Master Damian, and no unnecessary movement," Alfred instructed sternly, fixing an adhesive bandage over the wound. "I don't want you tearing those stitches. If you want something, you tell myself or your father. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Pennyworth." Damian replied quietly, not meeting the butler's eyes. Alfred patted the boy's shoulder and turned to head back upstairs, shooting Bruce a glance that said _'fix this.'_ Bruce swallowed and stepped up to the bedside.

"Do you mind if I sit?" He asked Damian quietly. Damian glanced at him furtively a couple times, not meeting his eyes. Finally, he nodded slightly. Bruce pulled a chair over and sat down. He folded his hands on his knees, trying to formulate words. 

"I." He said, and Damian's head snapped up, his eyes wide but suspicious, calculating. Bruce swallowed. "I apologize again for snapping at you, Damian. It was uncalled for." 

Damian's brows furrowed. "You are perfectly within your rights to criticize me. You are my superior."

Bruce stared, stunned. "Of...of course, but I'm also your father," he insisted. 

"And?" Damian asked, looking truly confused.

"And..." Bruce sputtered. "And it's not _alright_ for me to swat you around and snap at you for no reason just because I'm your parent, Damian!"

Damian stared blankly.

"It's not! I...I would be within my rights to criticize you for a lot of things, but..." Bruce's throat was suspiciously tight. "But not for your upbringing, because that was my fault." He dropped his gaze to the floor, unwilling to look at his son's face.

"How is it your fault?" Damian asked incredulously. "You weren't there."

"Exactly." Bruce looked up at him, into the eyes that were so like his mother's. "I should have looked after you, Damian. I should have gotten you out of there long ago. If I had, maybe things wouldn't have turned out like they have. Maybe you and Tim wouldn't hate each other, maybe I'd be better with you, I..." Bruce stood up, paced around the room. He felt caged, trapped. "I don't know."

Damian sounded rattled when he spoke. "I...don't hate Drake." The child's expression became startled, and he quickly corrected himself. "Not entirely anyway, he has his uses..." 

Bruce bit back the _you have a funny way of showing it,_ and turned back to face his son. "The bottom line is, you're my child, and I'm your father. If you don't know what to do, that's my fault, not yours." He swallowed. "I'm...I am angry at you, Damian, but not nearly as angry as I am at myself."

Damian stared for a long while. Bruce felt his heart seizing within him as he gazed at his little son, who couldn't seem to wrap his head around his father's regret. 

"I..." Damian paused, bit his lip. "I believe Grayson told me it would be appropriate to...forgive you, in a circumstance such as this?"

Bruce tried to squelch the faint bit of hope in his chest that welled up amid the guilt. "Only if you want to, Damian. If you don't want to, that's alright, too." 

Damian looked uncertain. "You're sure?"

Bruce nodded, squaring his jaw. "Yes."

"...You won't be mad?" Damian asked cautiously, and Bruce cringed. 

"No. No, I won't be angry, Damian." Bruce promised, even though he felt like crumbling then and there. 

"Tt." Damian said thoughtfully, seeming to consider the statement. Bruce waited, heart thudding dully. 

"I..." Damian said hesitantly. "I... think I...forgive you." The boy eyed him, with an unreadable emotion in his gaze. "I...well, you...you are my father, so I...I suppose I should. No," he corrected decisively. "I will. I do."

Bruce let out a quiet gasp of relief. "Thank..." he swallowed. "Thank you, Damian."

Damian shrugged, his eyes downcast. He was just a bit flushed, which told Bruce that he was embarrassed. Bruce felt unsure of how to proceed. Should he leave Damian alone, now? Let him rest? 

Damian seemed to sense his deliberation, and he slumped very slightly in the gurney, his expression carefully schooled into neutrality as he glanced at the sheets. 

"Have you ever seen the Zorro movies?" Bruce was saying before he could really think about it.

Damian's head snapped up. "Um. No." 

"I used to like watching them with my parents. It's been a while since I have, now that I think about it." Bruce hesitated. "Would you like to join me?"

Damian blinked. "I...I suppose," he finally said neutrally. "Since I must remain in bed the rest of the evening, anyway." 

"Right." Bruce stood up. "I'll go fetch some things, and I'll be back." 

He didn't ask if Damian wanted anything, but he made sure to leave the door to the Cave open long enough to coax Titus downstairs. He didn't ask if Damian wanted any food, but made sure to bring an extra juice bottle and bag of sunflower seeds. He didn't ask if Damian wanted company, he just sat down on the edge of the bed after setting up the projector, swung his legs up onto the foot of the bed. Damian scooted over just enough to allow him room, and said nothing. 

Damian stayed awake through the first movie, and most of the second, but finally nodded off during the last twenty minutes of the second movie. Bruce absentmindedly ran his fingers through Damian's hair as the child slept, his breathing calm and quiet. It never, ever got easier for him to see one of his children shot, whether it was in their night lives or in their supposedly normal ones. He supposed it probably never would. 

It never did get any easier. Even when his children were all capable adults, even when he was there, even when he protected them as best he could and knew there was nothing more he could have done, it never got easier. Even when they put on a brave face for him, when Dick gave a strained smile or Jason a weak _'don't scowl like that, old man, your face'll freeze that way,'_ or Tim bit his lip but didn't make a sound, or Damian kept eye contact with him through the entire treatment, an attempted assurance and sympathy in his pained brown eyes. It never got easier, but it was a fact of their existence. 

But it became a tradition, of sorts. Every time one of them was shot, he would be there when they woke up, and every time, he would give them a kiss on the forehead. Dick and Tim would smile, Jason would wrinkle his nose and Damian would blush. 

It wasn't much, but he was their dad. It was his job. 

**Author's Note:**

> well. that was sappy.  
> I'm on tumblr: http://autumnhobbit.tumblr.com/


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